My Best Friend's Wedding
by i-am-wholocked
Summary: A crack!fic, Romantic Comedy. John's going to marry England's nastiest celebrity, the wealthy Miss Mary Morstan. Now, Sherlock must crash the wedding and win back his best friend. But first, he has to come back to life...
1. Mary, Mary

_**Author's Note: I don't know if this type of fic has been written about Sherlock and John before, but Lisa and I felt inspired. It is totally time for a crazy wedding romantic comedy to be made about them. So now I present to you my first extremely ridiculous crack!fic P.S. There are lots of references to other movies/TV shows Benedict and Martin have been in. (And other shows too!) See if you catch them!**_

About 2 years from the moment Sherlock flew off the top of St. Bart's, he was wasting away in a colorless hotel room. A text message appeared on his phone. He glanced over at it.

**Sherlock, you've run out of chances to tell him the truth. John proposed to Mary today. – Mycroft**

Sherlock threw the mobile phone across the room, where it conveniently landed on a worn out chair to break its fall. He thought, _that fat whore! Why would he want to spend the rest of his life with her? She looks like that prostitute I met on that boat to Australia once… Only older and fatter! She weighs like 5 million pounds and she's unattractive! Who cares if she's a published author and does tons of charity work? That doesn't make her any more worthy of MY JOHN. _Sherlock was clearly green with envy. He knew that nothing could be done to change things, but he was still very upset.

The detective clicked on the television, trying to find the quickest way to relax his mind. During his time hunting down Moriarty's colleagues, he'd spent way too much time watching cheesy romantic comedies to numb his pain. He scrolled through the channels and found one of his favorites. He'd tuned in at just the right point, his favorite scene, the wedding. In this particular film, the woman's lover came back at just the right second to stop her wedding to a horrible lying man… Then Sherlock had an idea, a brilliant idea.

He got up and grabbed the phone off the chair. His fingers flew quickly across the keys.

**Brother, I need you to get me the date and time for the wedding. - SH**

He waited silently for Mycroft's response. Several moments later, the phone vibrated.

**She wanted to have it as soon as possible. It's in two and a half weeks. They are having it at her father's estate in the country. – Mycroft**

Sherlock growled. What a _dull stuck-up rich snob with her stupid high-end estate, why does he have to love her? Does he even really love her?_

**Send me a detailed invitation as soon as one becomes available. - SH**

He ran his fingers through his flat red hair. His missed his dark curly locks. Mycroft had made him go through that awful keratin treatment… then the process of bleaching and dying it… horrific! For his safety… yeah right, his older brother probably just did it for a laugh.

**I received an invitation this morning. I will take a picture of it and text it to you, so you know the particulars. – Mycroft.**

Sherlock waited anxiously for the picture message to arrive on his mobile. The picture came. The invitation was scripted in beautiful hand-written calligraphy. He read it out loud to himself.

It read:

_**Mr. & Mrs. Nathaniel Morstan request the honor of your presence at the marriage of their beloved daughter Miss Mary Lynette Morstan to Doctor John Hamish Watson son of Mr. & Mrs. Edwin Watson.**_

_**The ceremony will be held on Saturday the twenty-first, two in the afternoon at our family estate. A reception is to follow.**_

A knot formed in Sherlock's stomach. Would his plan really work?

In the weeks leading up to John's wedding, Sherlock hand over the remnants of the Moriarty case to Mycroft. He focused all of his attention on slithering in John's shadow. The detective took up residence in an Inn just a couple miles down the road from the Morstan estate. Each day, he followed the wedding planning adventures of Mary and John.

Gardens of magical flowers lined the castle-like mansion of the Morstan estate. Gorgeous stone pathways weaved through the grounds, like something out of a storybook. In one clearing amid the shrubbery, a stall stone stable was placed. Ivy and other greenery grew up its aging walls. Fifteen horses hung their heads out of wooden stall doors.

From Sherlock's hidden spot among bushes, he could clearly see across a riding ring with low fences and toward Mary grooming a stunning horse. John was standing on the other end of the paddock, with a cane in his hand. The detective sighed; _He's really limping again? I though Mycroft was just trying to scare me… _

Mary finished grooming the pure white stallion. She smiled at her fiancé and shouted, "You're excited to see me ride side-saddle right? I've been practicing so I can ride in my dress." John nodded, but seemed to show no real interest. The bride disappeared into a tack room and reappeared with a brown, leather traditional side-seat saddle, which she quickly threw onto the pale steed's back.

As she began riding circles in the ring, two figures emerged from one of the mythical garden walkways. One spoke, "Oh yes, we're here! This is the stable! My daughter is set on having her favorite stallion as a part of the wedding party! That's okay right?" Sherlock deduced that this woman was a clearly Mary's mother. She was short and slim. She was beautiful in the way only the rich can be, even while slight wrinkles lined her tired face. The younger woman standing next to her was obviously a wedding planner, hired to make Mary's dream nuptial ceremonies a reality.

The planner replied, "Why of course she can have the horse in the wedding! That's perfect! She'll look like a princess."

Sherlock snarled. _Princess, yeah right… She's more like a nasty fire-breathing dragon!_

John had dozed off, evidently bored out of his mind. Mary stopped riding at the edge of the ring nearest her bench. She kindly remarked, "Dear, the wedding planner is here. You should probably greet her." John snored loudly. Mary barked, "John Hamish Watson!"

Sherlock muffled his unruly laughter. John rose quickly, a bit shocked. Mary shook her head and rode to the other end of the ring to meet her mother and the planner.

Later that afternoon John went off to a fitting for his suit, but Sherlock decided to stay behind and continue watch Mary from the shadows. He followed her to a wooden gazebo among the gardens. Standing in its center was a dark-haired, brawny man. She ran into his arms and he embraced her tightly. Sherlock gasped as they began to kiss passionately. Moments later they bid each other farewell and ran off in opposite directions. Now Sherlock had no choice. He had to go through with his initial plan, for John's sake.


	2. Best Man

Sitting in his temporary room later that evening Sherlock turned on the only channel that the stupid inn received. He longed for the vast choices of television he'd had in his pale London hotel room. The lone channel was playing some dim celebrity interview.

The pink-haired host rambled on about some celebrities who were dating, then announced the special guest stars. She giggled, "I'm so excited to talk to today's guest stars! The daughter of famous fashion designer Elle Morstan and the owner of the Morstan hotel chain, Nathaniel Morstan will be visiting us today to talk about her upcoming marriage! Everyone welcome my fashion idol Miss Mary Morstan and her fiancé Dr. John Watson!"

Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed, leaning toward the telly in astonishment. Mary and John appeared on the screen and were seated in two puffy fuchsia chairs. John seated himself in a shy slouch, looking down at the cane he rested against his leg. Mary sat up with perfect posture, smiling to show off her perfect white teeth between her huge raspberry-colored lips. Due to her sitting position and the low cut nature of her shirt, her breasts were revealed in an unpleasantly excessive manner. "Whore," Sherlock mumbled to himself.

The host began to question her visitors. The bubbly young woman asked, "So, everyone knows how depressed John was before you found him and we've all read the rumors about your struggle to revive him, but those articles can't possibly give all the details. What was it really like to begin dating someone who'd recently been traumatized by an iconic fake detective?"

Mary twirled her hair around her finger and replied, "Oh well it was really tough at first! Let me give you the juicy details right from the beginning." The audience sounded with signs of delight! Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Miss Morstan continued, "I met him two years ago at a press conference. At the time, I was following my best friend Stacy, who reports news for BBC. By some brilliant coincidence the day I chose to go to work with her was the day I was destined to meet my Johnny." She reached her arm over to hold John's knee.

Sherlock muttered, "Coincidence and destiny… that's a contradiction."

Mary went on, "He was still in denial back then. He told all the reporters that Mr. Holmes wasn't a fake… that he had been real. He tried to claim that innocent Richard Brook fellow was the phony! Impossible, but I thought he was cute even if he was a bit off his rocker. So, after his little speech at the press conference, I decided to go have a personal chat with him."

The women in the audience giggled with excitement.

The eager host leaned toward Mary and begged, "Oh do please continue!"

Mary smiled, while John leaned back in the chair, bored.

"If you insist! I wouldn't want to bore you all…" she pretended to actually care about others.

The host barked, "I insist!"

Mary carried on, "I went over to see him. There was a long line of eager reporters, but I budged my way to the front. This made my friend Stacy mad, because I wasn't even a reporter, but she forgave me later when I gave her the best story! I went right up to John and I said, 'Sir, you're crazy for believing in that evil man! He tricked you and lied to you and you need to find new friends!' John replied, 'You're right I'm an idiot, I should just move on! He was a fake.' Then, he asked me to lunch and we've been madly in love ever since. Right Johnny dear?" She patted the doctor's knee gently and gave him a crooked smile. John faked a smile.

From John's appearance during this retelling, Sherlock could deduce several things. First, this was not an accurate story of how the couple met. Second, John really had called himself an idiot, but it wasn't a moment of realization. John hadn't moved on at that second. He'd fallen deeper into depression. Third, Mary was an all around sham.

The host grinned and inquired, "But Mary, what was it like to really revive him, to bring him back from his depression? Didn't that take awhile?"

Mary answered, "Well, it was tough. It was so tough! We had to go through lots of counseling to get things fixed." Mary began to produce fake tears. "Some nights he still wakes up from dreadful nightmares covered in tears! He has me though!" Mary wiped fake tears from her eyes.

A single real tear dripped down Sherlock's face. He bent forward and rested his forehead in his hands. He cried, "Why didn't I interfere sooner? I should be the one cuddling John… not her!"

On the screen, the host responded to Mary. She said, "Oh I didn't mean to make you cry. We all admire your strength, Mary! Let's have a round of applause for Mary Morstan! We'll be right back, after this commercial break, with tips on finding the perfect little black dress!"

The next day Sherlock combed his orange hair, put on an expensive suit and followed the happy couple to lunch. They were going out to eat at a fancy restaurant, owned by a friend of Mr. Morstan. Sherlock watched them walk in, and then waited a few minutes before entering. The pure white-clothed tables and origami-like folded napkins filled the room with a sense of wealth. On each table, a vase of purple flowers sat. Sherlock knew his disguise was terrible. In fact it was one of his worst ever. Luckily, the restaurant was crowded, so John and Mary probably wouldn't notice him. When he asked to be seated, the host looked him up and down. She sharply asked, "Just one?" Sherlock nodded.

She rolled her eyes and led him to a table very close to Mary and John. He barked, "No, no. I can't sit here, miss." She showed him to a table even closer to the couple, and he gave up. He offered, "I'll take the other one actually… please?" She was so frustrated, but led him back to the other table and threw an expensive leather menu in his face.

Sherlock eavesdropped on the pair's conversation. Mary said, "I hope you don't mind, but my father doesn't want Greg Lestrade to be your best man."

John inquired, "Why?"

Mary snapped, "Because my cousin Marc Poppy is going to be your best man. Don't worry! Greg can still be one of the groomsmen! He can dance with my other cousin, Marsha Poppy."

John shook his head, "Whatever, dear." He just didn't care enough to argue anymore.

Sherlock signed.

Suddenly, John looked up and noticed the tall man sitting several tables over. Sherlock looked down and covered his face with his menu, but it was too late. John had already seen the familiar face of his best friend. Sherlock began to worry. John mumbled under his breath, "Sherlock."

Mary quacked, "What?"

John moaned, "Nothing, just thought I saw an old friend. I was wrong though. It would be impossible to see him here, because he's dead."

Mary growled, "I thought you were over that Sherlock bloke. Wasn't counseling enough to clear your mind of him?"

John replied, "He was my best friend Mary. Memories of him don't just disappear because I talked to some man in a suit."

The rest of the meal was silent.


	3. Best Friend

The afternoon before the wedding, Mary and her wedding party held a rehearsal. Sherlock, who had fixed his hair and returned it to it's natural state the night before, disguised himself as a tanned, foreign groundskeeper and kept an eye on the ordeal. During the bride's multiple fits, doting bridesmaids comforted the spoiled girl. Everything from the way the violinist played, to the excessive noise her father's shoes made caused issues for the woman. Her parents smiled, seeming fake and forced, the entire time. Though Mary attempted to compel John to spend time with his best man, her cousin, he drifted towards Lestrade, who was demoted to groomsmen. Some people from the press had arrived and were snapped photos. Each time the flash went off John winced like a sacred animal in a zoo.

In the end, the entire group swarmed over to a catered, buffet lunch on the patio behind the house. Fancy food that looked more like art than a meal lined huge tables, with ruffled pink table clothes. Men in prim suits ran around with trays of strawberry lemonade, also brightly colored pink. Sherlock clipped hedges along the porch, intentionally overhearing conversations occurring amongst the group. Of course, the chatter that interested him was going on between his friends, Lestrade and Watson.

The detective inspector whispered to the doctor, "So, everything is still go for tonight right? This Poppy guy won't attempt to steal my thunder and plan your stag party last minute?"

John nodded and mumbled, "I'd never let him do that. Pick me up tonight as planned. We'll head over to King's and grab a drink."

Lestrade winked, "I've got more in mind than that."

The other man moaned, "Really Greg? I don't want any strippers or something crazy like that."

The D.I. replied, "No, I'm just inviting some of your other mates that's all."

John muttered, "Other mates? I don't have other friends anymore, Greg. It's just you now, remember? You and these people." He motioned around him, signaling that he spoke of the high-class people he now needed to associate with.

Greg scolded, "Really John, you need to stop being her puppet. She's destroying all of your friendships and using you as a charity project for good publicity."

Dr. Watson corrected, "That's not her fault at all. My friends left, because I still had faith in a dead man, whom they believed to be a liar."

Sherlock sighed loudly. Lestrade look toward the bushes and called, "Who's there? I know someone's been listening! Come on out."

Sherlock pulled his cap down in an effort to cover his face, then rose from behind the plant. He kept his head down, pretending to be shy and embarrassed. He improvised, "Sorry I interrupt you. My name is Benedicto. I no speak-a much English. I just trim hedge. Señor Morstan help me into country. I so very grateful. I leave now."

_Crap, that's my worst attempt at a foreign accent ever. _He thought shortly after he spoke, but the pair of men fell for it.

John commanded, "It's alright sir, keep up the good work. We need this garden perfect for tomorrow, because you know how Miss Morstan gets. She needs it all in order."

Sherlock, head still down, quacked, "Yes, yes sir. I try my very, very best for her. Muy bueno."

John gestured for the groundskeeper to depart, still unaware that he had just shooed away the man he'd spent so much time defending.

Greg helped John escaped the estate later that evening, and they headed for a local pub. Upon arriving at their destination, the doctor was shocked to see that Lestrade had rounded up several friends he hadn't seen in years. Even Mycroft showed up, which gave John mixed feelings.

Things went fine for a while. The group of friends joked around, and even Sherlock's big brother was cracking up. They spun stories of good times in the past, the better days. John had not smiled so much in a very long time. He repeatedly thanked the Detective Inspector, merely shrugged and said, "I barely did anything!"

Sherlock, disguised yet again, sat at the bar. He wore a ratty coat with the collar raised around his scrawny neck. The fake mustache he wore above his lips held an extremely authentic appearance. However, the bags under his eyes were not fake. Constant stress caused by the terrible, recent events left terribly, purple bags beneath his tired eyes. In a deep, gritty, fake-drunk voice he mumbled to the bartender, "Another one sir."

The rugged man refilled the detective's glass of liquor, then observed, "You seem 'ather fixated on that there group of lads. Do ya know 'um?"

Sherlock reminisced, "See the short one? With the cane?"

The burely barman nodded.

The detective continued, slipping out of his disguised voice, "He's my best frie-. No, he's more than that. He's all I can think about. Everyday, it's all about him. I wake up and see his face. I can't fall asleep at night, because I just picture him." Towards the end, he caught himself, but it was too late. His true voice had been revealed.

The bartender leaned done onto the counter. Looking straight at Sherlock, he said, "Well, tell the bloke how you feel!"

The youngest Holmes boy muttered, "He thinks I'm dead."

The barkeep devised a plan and offered it up to Sherlock. Upon hearing the complete plan, the detective added his own flair to the idea.

Moments later, John watched as the strange man, who he knew had been watching him, got up and left the bar. As the door shut behind him, the bartender called out, "Is there a Mr. Watson here tonight?"

John inched his way over to the bar. He replied, "Doctor, sir. Dr. Watson."

"Dr. Watson, ah yes," the man corrected himself then continued, "Some one just bought your party a round of drinks, and he left a gift for you."

The doctor titled his head in confusion. The barman pulled out a carton of milk. He set it on the counter, then spun it around to reveal a Post-It note attached to the front. John read the note. It said, _I Love You X - See you tomorrow_ He looked up and quacked, "Who left this for me?"

The bartender responded, "He didn't leave a name."

John stuttered, "It-it was a tall, skinny bloke.. right?"

The barmen thought for a moment, pondering the description. Then he barked, "Why yes! I believe it was, sir! Real handsome fellow, if he'd just loose the mustache."

The crippled doctor dropped his cane and spun around to face his friends. With excitement and pure joy, he exclaimed, "He's alive! Sherlock is alive!"

Lestrade and the rest of the group were shocked, except for Mycroft. He shook his head and pulled out his mobile phone.


	4. Wedding Day

_**Author's Note: My Beta is away at summer camp, sorry for the delay it caused on all my fics. THERE WILL BE ERRORS in this chapter, because she wasn't home to correct them. Sorry in advance. Basically, this last chapter just sucks. Thanks for sticking with this insane crackish fic until the end.**_

Sherlock returned to his room at the Inn. After a quick shower, his phone buzzed with a call from his brother. When he answered it, Mycroft scolded him, "Little brother, I hope you plan on reuniting yourself with John in person soon. You can't just leave him a note. That won't stop his marriage to Miss Morstan."

The detective mumbled, like a child, "Yes brother."

Mycroft continued, "Well then, I guess I can expect to see you at the wedding tomorrow morning. Bring the files we organized to prove that Moriarty framed you, because the press will be present. The Morstans are a highly regarded family, and tabloids won't miss an opportunity to snap some photos. You can use that to your advantage. Enter with a bang! That is all."

The phone clicked as the elder brother hung up. Sherlock sighed and began rolling his hair up in curlers.

On the other side of town, John Watson lay awake in a tiny, dull, guest room, on one of the lower floors of the large estate. (Following common wedding tradition, John and Mary had decided to spend the night/morning before their marriage apart.) The doctor really didn't know what to make of this new development, that Sherlock, HIS SHERLOCK, was alive. Too much alcohol had left his head spinning. His thoughts drifted to impossible fantasies of what might happen during their reunion.

And so they spent the night this way, Sherlock, hair in curlers, hanging out the Inn's window with a cigarette in his hand, and John wide-awake, but still comfortably wrapped in expensive sheets.

Guests arrived early for the afternoon ceremony. Cars began pouring down the estate's drive just before eleven. Paparazzi buzzed about the property. Lestrade woke John and sat with him for a late brunch. He tried his best to calm the nervous, hung-over groom, but his attempts fell short. After a quick meal, Dr. Watson awkwardly put on his tux with some help from Greg. The detective inspector started to tie a bowtie for his distraught friend, when suddenly a knock on the door stopped him. He moaned, "Who is it?"

A voice blared, "It's Marc Poppy! I'm here to be the best man!"

John frantically croaked, "Oh bloody hell, I forgot!"

Lestrade whispered, "What the hell is going on? I thought I was supposed to be your best man! Who is the Poppy bloke anyway?"

John flustered, pacing anxiously, "Greg, I'm sorry! I completely forgot to bring this up with Mary. One day at lunch Mary pulled some crap about how her cousin was going to be my best man. I didn't really think it was going to happen. I planned on talking to her about it later, but I slipped up." He began mumbling curses.

Greg opened the door. Marc Poppy, a chubby, childish man, loomed before him. Mr. Poppy repeated, "I'm here to be the best man!"

Angrily, Lestrade shouted, "Get out! I'm John's best man and that's final! I planned his bloody stag party! I helped him with his hangover! I AM HIS BEST MAN!" He slammed the door shut and turned back to the doctor, "I took care of it. That's what a best man's for.

Sherlock, of course, had not left the Inn just yet and was still getting ready. He planned on arriving just in time to stop the vows, but not a moment earlier. If the press would be present, Sherlock was going to make one last great spectacular for the media, before telling them all to piss off.

The ceremony was set in the garden. Roses surrounded the general vicinity, and wooden, white chairs, with red fabric cushions, parted to form a large aisle. High-class men and women dressed in designer clothes filled the seats.

John, Lestrade and the officiant stood underneath a canopy of more red and pink roses, facing the aisle, just slightly to the right. Music began, signaling the start of the procession. Three groomsmen, including Mr. Marc Poppy, walked three lovely bridesmaids down the aisle first. They lined up in front of the guests, men on the right and women on the left. A tiny boy Watson didn't recall meeting before approached with the rings. The doctor could only assume that he was some actor, hired to play ring bearer. Finally, the last besides the bride in the wedding party, Mary's maid of honor, proceeded toward them.

At long last, the bride, riding her horse led by her father, emerged from the distance. She slowly made her way through the crowd and to her groom.

When Mary finally dismounted her horse and stood next to John, the officiant began. He reached the point where he was required to say, "… If anyone has a reason why these two should not be married, speak now or forever hold your peace."

Sherlock come into sight, rousing gasps from all of the guests and the entire wedding party. Mary was especially shocked. John, who'd guessed Sherlock, would show up after last night's events, smiled. The detective raised his voice, "I object."

The crowd was speechless, except for a few reporters who began shouting questions like, "How did you mock your own death?" "Why would you come back if you truly were a fake?" "Why do you object to your best friend's marriage?"

Holmes ignored them, and walked forward toward the bride and groom. The officiant gestured to the file folder in Sherlock's left hand and barked, "Do you have a legal reason why these two should not be married? If not, you are wasting our time."

The detective replied, "No sir. This folder contains proof that James Moriarty framed me, and that I am not a phony detective. It also provides a detailed explanation of how I faked my death. I will be giving it to the media under the agreement that they will, from now on, stop publishing stories about my adventures and me. The final thing they will publish is here, in this packet. This is all they may show the world. The only true accounts of my cases that I will allow to be published from this day forward, are those written by my companion John Watson, if he agrees to return to helping me with my detective work."

Greg Lestrade, who stood next to the groom, made no effort to stop Sherlock.

The officiant sighed, "Brilliant speech Mr. Holmes, but if you'd please excuse yourself, we have a wedding going on and you have no legal reason why I can't marry Dr. Watson and Miss Morstan . . ."

John interrupted, "Wait!"

The officiant rolled his eyes and asked, "What is it Dr. Watson?"

The doctor declared, "I don't want to marry Mary!"

The officiant began to speak, but he couldn't get any words out before Mary barked, "WHAT?"

John tried to calm her down, "I'm sorry Mary. It's just . . . I didn't really want to marry you in the first place. You really forced that proposal, and I was about to end things with you. I was just really vulnerable and I'm sorry; I guess I used you. But… now Sherlock's alive."

The bride stammered, "JOHN, you can't just leave me because your little playmate came back from the dead! We all know you can't go out on cases like you used to! Your leg got so much worse!"

John snickered, "Mary, I was shot in the shoulder."

She wheezed a pathetic, angry gasp that sounded like a dying horse.

Mr. Morstan rose from his front row seat and made an attempt to interrupt, "Oh please! This is all ridiculous, can we just get on with the wedding and forget that this man made an appearance. This whole situation is just nonsense."

Sherlock turned, glared and snapped, "Oh do shut up!" He turned back to face the doctor, "Listen, John . . . This is your choice to make, whatever you do I won't mind, but while I was away I realized things. I realized how important you are to me, and I'm not going to say I need you, because I'm Sherlock Holmes. I don't _need _people, but I do love you. There, I've said it. I love you Dr. Watson."

John dropped his cane and reached out, as if he was going to embrace the detective, but instead, he punched him in the face.

Mr. Holmes was barely scratched, but he was rather stunned, "J-John?"

Dr. Watson claimed, "That's for the three years of hell you put me through, and this is for admitting you love me, after all this time, you bloody idiot." He grabbed the detective tightly and pecked him on the lips.

Lestrade smiled brightly, he was probably the least confused guest. The tabloids were practically having a party, flashing cameras left and right, while the audience gasped.

Mary, outraged, shouted, "You're GAY?"

To which, John, still holding Sherlock, replied, "I guess so. Maybe. Yes. Of course."

Miss Morstan quickly thought up a plan to save her wedding, "But what about the baby?"

There were more gasps from the already stunned crowd, and more flashes from excited cameramen. Mrs. Morstan fainted.

Sherlock grabbed John's hand and laughed, "Nice try lying bitch, but I'm a consulting detective, and I can tell when a women's dishonest about being pregnant."

The detective pulled John along, running down the aisle, through the crowd and out of the rose-covered garden. Just as they reached the gate, John paused for a moment grabbed Sherlock in a real kiss, and held up his middle finger to Mary. Mrs. Morstan, who had just been revived, fainted into her husband's arms again. Lestrade laughed. Mycroft, from the back row, looked over and winked at the D.I., who raised his eyebrows cautiously.

_**Author's Note: Basically, that's how Series 3 should go. TAKE NOTE MOFFAT, TAKE NOTE! Thanks for reading and reviewing everybody! I'd love to hear what you thought of the ending so please let me know! If you like my writing, you can check out my other exciting Sherlock, Doctor Who and Death Note fics!**_


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